Mofo Quotes

You take 5 white guys and you take 5 black guys and put em together for a week and what you won't have is 5 blacks guys talking like, 'Golly gee, we really won that big basketball game' but you will have 5 white guys talking like 'Yo slick, whuzzup...we be shootin hoops and mad playin, slammed those mofos

Batter up, mofo.

I had to google "mofo" and must confess to being slightly alarmed by the result.

The only mofos in my circle are people that I can learn from.

Vicious is Vaughn’s dad and the deadliest mofo in the neighborhood. I crushed on him when I was five. Baron “Vicious” Spencer is still a hottie, so #SorryNotSorry

Preppy leans back on the siding and hooks his thumbs under his suspenders, stretching and releasing them several times before he speaks. “Sooo…I hate to be the bearer of interesting news, but you’re looking at her like you want to eat her. Stalk much?” “No, I’m fucking not,” I snap defensively. Too defensively. Preppy releases his suspenders and holds up his hands like he’s on the receiving end of a hold-up. “Whoa, whoa. Don’t go getting your panties in a twist, little brother. I didn’t say stalking was a bad thing. In fact, if you need some pointers, I’d be happy to enrol you in Preppy’s How To Stalk Like a Mofo 101.

The only mofos in my circle are people that I can learn from.” —Questlove

When MoFos and the furred and feathered worked together it was beautiful and unstoppable. It is what nature intended.

Big Jim used to tell me that "money talks," but this stash was mighty silent. I suspect this is one of those MoFo expressions meant to confuse, like when I wasted an entire afternoon searching the yard for an ax and a body because Big Jim said he's buried the hatchet with his friend Mike.

Addiction to an electronic world caused the downfall of the MoFos. They’d forgotten to connect with each other, to connect with the creatures who missed them and to Nature as She called for them to come home. The crow part of me knew not to dwell on what was, but the MoFo part of me would always carry my best friend in my heart. Because we never give up on anything, especially love, and that’s the very, very best thing about being a MoFo.

Strong with the Dark Side of the Force that place is. In you must go, mofo.

So with light hearts and bellies full of Day-Glo orange magic, we set off on a quest to find a MoFo who looked like a coconut that could open doors.

I would never have thought I’d find this so hot in a million years. I’m one kinky mofo. Who knew?

The quickest way to get cut off from naked Twister is to act like working outside the house makes you exempt from equal parenting. Mofo.

I was going to step up and do the MoFo thing. Take responsibility and bring peace to a world that was falling apart without them. We were losing what makes us human, losing the very best part of us.

about his origins from the holographic ghost of his own long-dead father. But now I was thinking of a young Jedi-in-training named Luke Skywalker, looking into the mouth of that cave on Dagobah while Master Yoda told him about today’s activity lesson: Strong with the Dark Side of the Force that place is. In you must go, mofo. So in I went. When I unlocked the front door of our house and stepped into the living room, Muffit, our ancient beagle, glanced up at me sleepily from where he was stretched out on the rug. A few years earlier he would have been waiting for me just inside the door, yapping like a madman. But the poor guy had now grown so old and deaf that my arrival barely

In my book, though, they should have changed Unidentified Flying Objects to Mysterious Otherworldly Flying Objects—or MOFOs. This name was more accurate after all. And I’d give my last dollar to hear TV reporters using the new acronym.

Elephants command attention. But their size is not what makes the heart skip a beat. It's how they walk with the world's weight on their shoulders, sensitive, noble, their hearts pulsing and as wide open as the great grey leaves that are their ears. MoFos used to say that an elephant never forgets and until this very moment, I hadn't understood what that really meant. An elephant's memories don't reside in organ or skin or bone. They live closer to tree time than we do, and their memories reside in the soul of their species, which dwarfs them in size, is untouchable, and lives on forever to honor every story. They carry stories from generations back, as far as when their ancestors wore fur coats, That is why, when you are close to an elephant, you feel so deeply. If they so choose, they have the ability to hold your sadness so you may safely sit in the lonely seat of loss, still hopeful and full of love. Their great secret is that they know everything is a tide—not a black tide, but the natural breath of life—in and out, in and out, and to be with them is to know this too, And here they were, suddenly lifting the weight of our sadness for us, carrying it in the curl of their trunks. We all sat together in our loss, not dwelling, but remembering. For an elephant never forgets,

I got on the plane, and even though it was early morning, I stayed wide awake during the entire flight, waiting for some motherfucker to storm the cockpit. I envisioned what would’ve happened had the Taliban tried to hijack a plane carrying the WWE crew. Boxcutters versus the craziest mofos on the planet? Game over, jihad.

A large piece of lead floated out of Bobby head, followed by dark chunks of what could only be pieces of Bobby's brain. The torrent started up again. It flowed steady rather than pulsed with his heart. I knew from that, and from the amount of blood, that it was that mofo vein bleeding. And probably more than a small tear if the amount of blood was telling. I thought there had to be a hole the size of Montana in that thing. "Jesus Mother Mary" I said, then "Stitch!" The scrub tech slapped a needle holder into my palm, a curved needle and silk stitch clamped into the end of it. I might have closed my eyes—I've been told I do that sometimes in surgery when I'm trying to visualize something—though if so I don't remember doing it. I took that needle and aimed it into the pool of blood. "Suck here Joe, right here." When I thought I could see something, something gray and not black red, I plunged the pointy end of the needle through whatever the visible tissue was and looped it out again. I cinched it down and tied it quick, then repeated the maneuver again after adjusting slightly for lighting, sweating, my own bounding heartbeat, and the regret I wasn't wearing my own diaper. We're losing, I thought.

No it was my choice. It's what I wanted to do. And I knew they'd probably send me to Iraq. It's not like anybody lied to me." She groans. "Billy, all these mofos ever do is lie. You think if they halfway told the truth we'd even be in a fucking war? You know what I think, I think we don't deserve to have you guys die for us. No country that lets It's leaders lie like that deserves a single soldier to die for it.

O tempo desapareceu; é a Eternidade que reina, uma eternidade de delícias! Mas uma batida terrível, pesada, fez estremecer a porta e, como em um pesadelo infernal, senti ter levado uma agulhada na boca do estômago. E em seguida um Espectro entrou. Um funcionário que vem me torturar em nome da lei; uma concubina infame que vem chorar misérias e acrescentar as trivialidades da sua vida às dores da minha; ou ainda o faz-tudo enviado pelo diretor do jornal a exigir a entrega do manuscrito. O quarto paradisíaco, o ídolo, a soberana dos sonhos, a Sílfide, como dizia o grande René, toda essa magia desapareceu com a batida brutal do Espectro. Que horror! Agora lembro, lembro! Sim! Esse pardieiro, residência do tédio eterno, é bem o meu. Aí está a mobília vulgar, coberta de pó, lascada; a lareira sem chama e sem brasa, imunda de escarros: as melancólicas janelas em que a chuva cavou sulcos na poeira; os manuscritos, riscados ou incompletos; o calendário onde o lápis ressaltou as datas fatídicas! E esse perfume de outro mundo, no qual eu me embriagava com uma refinada sensibilidade, ai de mim! Foi substituído pelo cheiro fedorento de tabaco misturado a sabe-se lá que tipo de mofo. Respira-se já aqui o ranço da desolação. Nesse mundinho pequeno, mas farto de desgosto, só um objeto conhecido me sorri: a garrafinha de láudano; velha e espantosa amiga; como todas as amigas, aliás! Fértil em carícias e traições. Ah, sim! O Tempo está de volta, o Tempo reina agora soberano; e junto com o velho repugnante retornou o seu cortejo demoníaco de Lembranças, de Arrependimentos, de Espasmos, de Medos, de Angústias, de Pesadelos, de Cóleras, de Neuroses. Eu lhes asseguro que todos os segundos são agora forte e solenemente acentuados, e cada um deles, brotando do pêndulo, diz: – Sou a Vida, insuportável, implacável!

A large piece of lead floated out of Bobby head, followed by dark chunks of what could only be pieces of Bobby's brain. The torrent started up again. It flowed steady rather than pulsed with his heart. I knew from that, and from the amount of blood, that it was that mofo vein bleeding. And probably more than a small tear if the amount of blood was telling. I thought there had to be a hole the size of Montana in that thing. "Jesus Mother Mary" I said, then "Stitch!" The scrub tech slapped a needle holder into my palm, a curved needle and silk stitch clamped into the end of it. I might have closed my eyes—I've been told I do that sometimes in surgery when I'm trying to visualize something—though if so I don't remember doing it. I took that needle and aimed it into the pool of blood. "Suck here Joe, right here." When I thought I could see something, something gray and not black red, I plunged the pointy end of the needle through whatever the visible tissue was and looped it out again. I cinched it down and tied it quick, then repeated the maneuver again after adjusting slightly for lighting, sweating, my own bounding heartbeat, and the regret I wasn't wearing my own diaper. We're losing, I thought.

Black-capped chickadees warned of a large troupe of Hollows clustered around a shop called Scarecrow Video. Hollows are what most fauna have long called MoFos, named for their dissociative state.

There had been so many MoFo ladies—the librarian, the lawyer, the gastromancer who conversed with dead people via tummy rumbles, the psychic we underestimated (she’d told Big Jim that the human population was about to be wiped out, which had really killed the vibe of mini golf), the bodybuilder, the one who wouldn’t let me steal her earrings, the pet oncologist, the one from Zimbabwe, the one with six children, the one with dead mice in her pockets (Detective Turd eked them out, and she had to come clean about being an Indian python mom). These strange species of MoFo blew in and out of our lives like empty Cheeto® bags.

That Goody Gimlet For you bougie mofos, here’s a cocktail that’s a little more high class than the gin and juice I was swiggin’ from a plastic cup. It’s even got a fancy-ass name: the Gimlet.

After our Q & A session, I wanted to take a photo with the troops. Since everyone carried weapons 24/7, I asked this one soldier if I could hold his rifle. He told me to wait just a minute. He hurried off to his barracks and came back with an AK-47. With confidence that was bordering on cockiness, he said that he had gotten the weapon from a dead Taliban. Imagine what went through my mind as I was taking this photo. I have a whole new respect for the Special Forces. They are some bad mofos!

Atirada a um leito, tonelável, imobilizada, enchendo de mofo o fofo estofo.

I fluttered my gular, hating the part of me that they recognized, desperately wanting to pluck off my wings and walk on two legs and have a limitless imagination. I was sick of being a patchwork of puzzle pieces, parts of this and bits of that. I was one color but not one thing. I wanted to be perceived, to look and sound and act, like I felt inside. Like a MoFo.

Mofos gonna mofo

Yeah I'm one broken mofo. I still care for myself tho. Keep it tidy. Still fit. No one does blip for me. I still eat and mingle with nature. Still recovering. Depression is a bear. It doesn't help that my ever best friend spits bullets. I asked one innocent thing. I begged to drop g's no strings attached. I knew we'd hit it off, maybe for life. I ached for it. Your gift, my trampoline. A hug. Some fun. Some delightful brain food. A happy that would last ages. It's a catch-22 scenario. I begin in the negative to someday find happiness, but I need happiness to get me out of the negative. What am I supposed to do? Take drugs? I teemed for 24 hours anticipating you. That was quite a drug. You call it a conversation? Nah, we be flingin. It's something; a dash of hope. You guesser, judge, jury, executioner. Thinkin I'm some monster by default. Guesser of what I meant. Guessed wrong. It's a choice. You could help pull out the knife or stick it in deeper and twist it around. You do what you enjoy killa. For years I was the only one with a stable income. They told me I was too stupid for school. Instead, I worked to support my family. I worked near 24/7. Then wham, catastrophe. Eugenics at play. Without a support system or tools to defend, you're tossed. I had a lawsuit but I failed to act in time. From zero and stranded in the sticks, I failed lots, threw away lots, I managed to make some money with my skills. Eventually I helped get a house in a decent neighborhood. They let a drug addicted hooker in. I fought the drug fiends. I paid the mortgage debt, several months behind, to save the place, but in the end, I couldn't win. They insisted on moving here. I was the only one with money. I came with to battle the new crisis and to recoup my losses until I figured out what to do next. Couldn't just abandon the kids. Over time the situation improved. Drugs were defeated. I didn't intend to stay. This place got to me. I am ashamed and battered by it all. No, I don't mess with drugs. I found the landscape of my field where most of the jobs are at has changed extensively over the years. I wasn't concentrated on that area. I'm obsolete. Without a degree, you're auto discarded. Still ways in, but I need to be on my A-game. Not going anywhere without exuding confidence. I'm all twisted up inside. Loneliness eating at me. Cold cruel world. My best friend dodgin me. All work, all alone, as it's always been. Can't do it all alone. In the end, what do I get? A hostile mob? Walked in for a chat. What I got was wacked.

Bad Trash ( I Don't Like the Sound of That) Runs in the family R u n s in the f a m i l y- No, that's an atrocity you won't hear from me I don't like the sound of that Not lyin' in a mouse trap- I'm a mofo' sassy cat I don't clean no d i r t y rat No, not my reality Said not M Y reality- Don't shine shit in front of me and call it my reality! I don't like the sound of that Cruel intentions get tires flat I say what will shine for me I say what will bleed for me I call out the trash to me Bad trash always dies for me Clawed out my own reality The top from the back alley I don't run in the family I run far from the alley Calling all my sour soulmates- Recovering a l l e y c a ts You all clean up so good now No bad, bad trash, just LoVe pats! No bad trash, just LoVe pats

lemurs are polygynous (one male mates with several females in a breeding season). MoFos were also sometimes polygynous, but most tended to have just one wife, which they called monotony.

In the midst of their pandemic panic, American MoFos hoarded unfathomable mountains of toilet paper. It has never been clear why they needed so much, and I imagined them salivating over their stockpiles like Smaug, if he’d had irritable bowel syndrome.

Addiction to an electronic world caused the downfall of the MoFos. They'd forgotten to connect with each other, to connect with the creatures who missed them and to Nature as She called for them to come home.

He's a bold mofo for sure, a foolhardy jackass. You stand too close to him you'll be wiping his shitty ass soon.

Creatures with scales or bristles or down, slobbering tongues, good hearts, gentle souls, and soft mouths. Creatures who knew the magic of MoFos, what they give us in protection and affection, what it means to love them with all of your heart and nose and beak.

My smile was as quick and big as a lightning bolt, but I killed that mofo real fast. Professional mode.

Something you might be unaware of—in the natural world, there is an Internet. In English, it would roughly translate to Aura because it is all around us. It’s not the same as MoFo Internet with YouTube crabby cat videos and sneezing infant pandas, but it is similar in that it is a network, a constant flow of information at your disposal, if you can be bothered to tune in and listen.

I had learned about tigers from a National Geographic documentary that had triggered this whole bait idea, from a channel dedicated to MoFos’ reverence of the natural world.

I told them about how even though MoFos weren’t born with wings, they made their own and put them on airplanes and maxi pads, and about how they flushed all their poops out to Echo—the crows thought this was super hilarious. I explained birthday cake as a spongy mattress of awesome with hidden rivers of delicious goo to celebrate having stayed alive a whole year. I explained how MoFos measured time in German boobs and how their eyes rained when they were sad and also happy.

I stared at the bones with sand in my throat. I had never seen a dead crow, had never been faced with a mirror of my foundations. Is this what went on underneath my skin? These brittle slivers of pearly white? The tiny skull with boned beak? Are these really the roots of us, just an insignificant collection of sprig-like connectors, a rib cage no bigger than a MoFo palm? Is this little nest, this smattering of splintery white twigs, what makes a crow? What makes me?

MoFos used to say that an elephant never forgets and until this very moment, I hadn’t understood what that really meant. An elephant’s memories don’t reside in organ or skin or bone. They live closer to tree time than we do, and their memories reside in the soul of their species, which dwarfs them in size, is untouchable, and lives on forever to honor every story. They carry stories from generations back, as far as when their ancestors wore fur coats. That is why, when you are close to an elephant, you feel so deeply.

there.” Disconnecting the call before Mimi could lambaste her further, she tossed the phone on the bed and darted for the bathroom. Her toe caught on the bedpost, sending a shot of pain through her foot and up her leg. Howling with righteous indignation, she called the bed a few choice names as she hobbled her way to the tub. Performing the world’s fastest strip down, she jumped into the shower and nearly slipped. “Holy fright,” she barked, catching herself on the handrail. Her brain was still groggy with sleep, her toe ached like a mofo, and she’d almost head-butted herself with the shower. This was clearly not her day. Like, at all. She needed a strong cup of coffee, STAT. And better karma. And apparently, a new alarm clock. Lathering the shampoo into her long, unruly curls, Evangeline replayed her evening. She had read for an hour before turning off the bedside lamp, and she distinctly remembered flipping the alarm to the on position. Having purchased the alarm clock radio at a secondhand store in what she thought was a great deal, she now figured it was past its prime, and she’d need to buy a new one when she got paid on Friday. Because who wouldn’t love to spend what little she earned on a new small appliance? After playing the lather-and-rinse game with the conditioner, she washed her body before carefully stepping from the shower to grab a towel. The last thing she needed was to do the splits across the linoleum floor. Her dang toe still throbbed to the tempo of an agitated mariachi band. After a quick towel drying that left her hair dripping rivulets down her back, she chose a blousy blue top, black gaucho pants, and a pair of ballet flats, which she managed to slip into without ripping, breaking, or slipping on anything.

Disconnecting the call before Mimi could lambaste her further, she tossed the phone on the bed and darted for the bathroom. Her toe caught on the bedpost, sending a shot of pain through her foot and up her leg. Howling with righteous indignation, she called the bed a few choice names as she hobbled her way to the tub. Performing the world’s fastest strip down, she jumped into the shower and nearly slipped. “Holy fright,” she barked, catching herself on the handrail. Her brain was still groggy with sleep, her toe ached like a mofo, and she’d almost head-butted herself with the shower. This was clearly not her day. Like, at all. She needed a strong cup of coffee, STAT. And better karma. And apparently, a new alarm clock. Lathering the shampoo into her long, unruly curls, Evangeline replayed her evening. She had read for an hour before turning off the bedside lamp, and she distinctly remembered flipping the alarm to the on position. Having purchased the alarm clock radio at a secondhand store in what she thought was a great deal, she now figured it was past its prime, and she’d need to buy a new one when she got paid on Friday. Because who wouldn’t love to spend what little she earned on a new small appliance? After playing the lather-and-rinse game with the conditioner, she washed her body before carefully stepping from the shower to grab a towel. The last thing she needed was to do the splits across the linoleum floor. Her dang toe still throbbed to the tempo of an agitated mariachi band. After a quick towel drying that left her hair dripping rivulets down her back, she chose a blousy blue top, black gaucho pants, and a pair of ballet flats, which she managed to slip into without ripping, breaking, or slipping on anything.

May we all be swan-like and soar. (love me some Motivated Mo-Fo’s) Truths and roses have thorns about them. ~ Henry David Thoreau

Steaming meat slides in our direction, Lucas leading it onto a plate before glancing up at the ticket. He reaches for his belt, covering the meat in some orange sauce and then using his gloved hands to load it with toppings from the trays in front of us. There's cilantro, onions, lime wedges, corn salsa, avocados, and chili peppers. Ten different kinds of salsa, all marked with different colored tape that read either PUSSIES, NIÑOS, BADASS MOFOS, or LOCO. I assume they're heat indexes, and Lucas tells me to fill some plastic cups with a few milds, I reach for the salsa marked PUSSIES. "Whoa, careful." Lucas points to a bottle out of sight. I pull it to the front and it reads GABACHOS. "Pen..." Lucas taps the salsa I reached for first. "Took offense to the labels. Now Pussies is the hottest salsa we have.